Reparations
by whimsical-summer
Summary: Alternately, the Adventures of Black Widow and Hawkeye. Natasha thinks she deserves to die. Clint disagrees. Chapter 6: They must infiltrate an enemy organization, and they're ready for the danger, but neither is prepared for the fact that their lives are going to change forever.
1. Dancing

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**The Avengers. **_**It's the property of Marvel. **

**Disclaimer II: Yes, I ship BlackHawk/Clintasha/whatever-you-call-it. However, this will be **_**very, very, very**_** slow-building. Just thought I'd warn you if this isn't your cup of tea for any reason. **

**Author's Note: So, first chapter! This story is set in the same universe as **_**Doubts**_**, my short Natasha origin story, but it's definitely not necessary to read it, at all. Also, I know this has been done a thousand times, but hopefully I can put a new or at least sort-of-new twist on it. I've had the idea for this in my head since June, and I had written a draft of it, but I've changed it a lot over the past few months (plus I was really busy in RL, so I didn't have much time). **

**Edit: Updates of this story will be on Mondays until further notice. **

**That said, I hope you enjoy! **

**Dancing **

Something was wrong, very wrong. It was like a sixth sense to her, this ability to know when everything was not as it should be. It was what she had been made for.

She smiled sweetly up at the target, scrutinizing him for any hint that he suspected her. She found none. The problem, then, was something else, or rather, someone else. She'd had tails before, enemies of her country that viewed her as an obstacle. They had tried to best her many times, but they had never been successful. Natalya Romanova, the Black Widow, feared no living thing. She had destroyed them all.

"You are so lovely, Nadia," the target said, voice slurred. It would not be much longer before he was well and truly drunk. Then she would lead him to a private room and find out all that he knew so she could carry that information back to the Red Room in order to keep her country safe.

But first she had to be Nadia Reznikova, the wealthy young heiress who had not existed until last week. She pushed another glass of wine towards the target and giggled. "Thank you, Mr. Morrison."

"I've told you before, please, call me Owen."

She nodded demurely. He was American, that much he knew that she knew. She had already complimented him on his Russian, and it was almost true (though his accent was imperfect). Like so many of her targets, he absorbed flattery like a sponge absorbs water.

He didn't know, though, that she knew he had a high-ranking position at an illegal, international weapons dealing company. That was why she was with him - her superiors had set her to the task of unraveling his company, which had refused to sell to the Red Room at reasonable prices. After long months of single-minded focus, she was almost finished with the mission. She had already obtained security access codes for one of the dealer company's largest warehouses, and now she only had to find out where his boss was going to be, and then the Red Room would have both its guns and its revenge.

The target also didn't know that she was going to interrogate and dispose of him in half an hour. That knowledge might be enough to make him stop kissing her.

Perhaps an hour passed by, during which she monitored the other patrons in the hotel bar, assessing each of them. If any of them were carrying weapons, they hid them as well as she herself did. No one looked too suspicious or too innocent, but she kept her guard up.

After he had a few more sips of the strong drink, she decided that he was drunk enough. "Come, Owen," she murmured, slipping her arm through his. "Let's go upstairs."

There was still something wrong when they entered the hotel room. She slipped a sleeve off her shoulder, tantalizingly. "Darling, would you close the curtains?"

He hurried to comply.

**-Scene-**

"Barton, report to briefing room 13 immediately."

Clint rolled over on the bed, blinking sleep out of his eyes. The clock read 4:03 A.M. He groaned. Any other time, he might have joked, _Five more minutes, Coulson,_ but his handler's voice was dead serious. It was going to be one of those days, wasn't it? "I hear you," he managed to choke out.

Exactly six minutes later, he walked through the perpetually busy corridors of the Helicarrier, nodding a few greetings to fellow agents. Coulson was waiting for him when he entered the briefing room.

"We found her," the handler said in clipped tones, foregoing his usual, cheerful 'Good morning.'

Clint narrowed his eyes. Boy, he needed coffee. "Her?"

"The operative that assassinated the Lithuanian politician last February. And not only that, but we've potentially linked her to at least thirty-two other deaths throughout Europe. We don't have much evidence. She's better at covering her tracks than just about anyone we've ever come across."

Oh, her. There had been an uproar at SHIELD when recon agents at the scene of the crime had found a rare, unnamed, and nearly undetectable poison in the dead politician's blood. Clint hadn't heard much more about the case, apart from the normal gossip. "That's a pretty high body count."

"Exactly what we were thinking." Coulson picked up a file folder about two inches thick and handed it to Clint. "There are some unsolved cases in here that may or may not be her."

_Impressive,_ Clint thought. It took a lot of skill, and nearly as much luck, for any agent to amass such a huge file. Hell, that file was almost as big as his, and it probably wasn't even complete. "She's been busy."

Coulson nodded. "We did as much investigating as we could. She's known as the Black Widow, and she works for the Red Room. You'll find everything else you need to know in there. Quinjet leaves in forty minutes. We'll be in contact until the job is completed."

"I'm on it," he said, scanning the file, but what he really wanted to say was that he'd only gotten back from Denver seven hours ago, and that couldn't they use some other sniper, just once? But of course they wouldn't, not for someone so important. He supposed he should be proud of that.

"One shot is all you'll get. Miss her once and she'll disappear."

"That, or kill you," Fury said, walking in abruptly, which meant that yeah, this was important. "You up for this, Barton?"

_Not really. _"Have I ever missed, sir?"

"Don't start now," Fury answered, and held his gaze. "This has to be quick, before she takes out anyone else, but be careful. Not even the WSC knows about this yet. I didn't want our Russian friends to tip her off - I don't know if they're involved with her or not."

"Yes, sir," Clint said, and walked out the door, looking back through the file papers. He was repulsed by the brutality of some of the Black Widow's murders, but, if he was honest with himself, a little impressed with her efficiency. This mission might actually turn out to be a challenge, something that might require all his skill and experience.

It took a while for it all to sink in, but when it hit him, it hit him with all the force of an Amtrak Express. She wasn't just a killer, she was _sick_. What she did to people was unbelievable, even to someone like him, whose entire life was based on death - and that wasn't even touching the murders of innocents that she committed. By the time he settled down in the Quinjet for the long flight, he had a plan of action.

He was going to kill the Black Widow.

**-Scene-**

He tracked her across Russia.

He watched as she left a trail of destruction in her wake.

Like the spider she was named for, she was masterful at luring her targets into webs from which there was no escape. She was the killer at the center of the web, but she was also the lure. Each time, she changed her act to appeal particularly to her target, and she never failed.

Even though Owen Morrison had been a criminal almost as hateful as she was, Clint still cursed and punched the nearest wall when he arrived at the scene of Morrison's sudden death. The cops said alcohol poisoning, but Clint said _Black Widow._ A storm cloud of guilt hung over him, weighing down on his shoulders. Morrison had been bad news, but he'd at least deserved the judicial process. Maybe he would have gotten life in prison or something instead of the death penalty. She knew someone was trailing her, so she'd thrown him off with some crazy moves in St. Petersburg, and Clint hadn't been able to get to her in time, like he hadn't been able to get to her for the past three weeks.

Two weeks before, Clint had almost gotten her - he'd literally had her in his sights. But then she'd been attacked by five enemy operatives, and for a while Clint had been reasonably sure that he would be robbed of the chance to put an arrow through her, especially after they had disarmed her. He had been shocked - or as shocked as a SHIELD agent ever could be - when she had not only escaped but slaughtered all five opponents in a whirl of acrobatic hand-to-hand. She was gone in the blink of an eye, dripping with their blood. She displayed a ruthlessness that he recognized in himself, but he'd never seen anything to match her acrobatic fighting style. He hadn't been able to kill her because she'd ducked out of his range the second she started fighting.

Two days ago, she'd brutally murdered the head of an illegal black-ops organization that she'd infiltrated some months before, as a statement, and once again, she'd been in the wind before Clint could get to her. She had succeeded in her quest to weaken the company Owen Morrison had worked for.

Now, Clint had another opportunity to take her out, once and for all. He followed her to Vladivostok, and was briefly confused when she strolled into a dance studio. She had to be planning something - another assassination, maybe. He collapsed his bow and stowed his quiver (the top of the quiver zipped shut so it looked like any other duffel bag), and walked in after her.

She was alone in a small, dimly lit concert hall, and it wasn't too hard for him to slip in through a back exit and watch her from backstage, hidden behind a velvet curtain. She was dressed like a ballerina, and he almost couldn't believe it when she started to dance to Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. He didn't know much about dancing at all, but even he could tell that she was perfect, moving in time to the music with the same grace with which she fought.

Her hair had fallen out of its loose bun by the time she finished, her fiery curls framing her face like something out of a painting, and Clint thought he glimpsed the glint of tears on her cheeks when she turned her face in his direction. But that couldn't be - she couldn't feel, couldn't laugh, couldn't cry unless she was acting for a target. Right?

He looked closer, and saw deep circles under her eyes. When the music stopped, she seemed to lose the grace she normally had, and she unlaced her slippers slowly, as if she dreaded the action. Clint was good at reading people - it came with the job. Black Widow looked tired to him, and not just from lack of sleep. Just being near her was enough to feel the sorrow that radiated off her, and for the life of him Clint couldn't understand it. He almost felt sorry for her, with all her wasted talent, but why would she ever feel sad for herself? Unless she understood exactly what she was doing - but then why do it?

She shouldered her bag and walked out of the studio, and it took Clint five minutes to realize that he'd had a perfect opportunity and he hadn't even tried to shoot her.

**I'd really like to know what you think so far, so leave a review, please! Constructive criticism is very much appreciated! **


	2. Free

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**The Avengers. **_**Marvel does. **

**I'd like to thank all the followers and favoriters, and especially the reviewers, Often Late Kate, sv4me, Liliththestormgoddess, both Guests, and Anonymous2004. You're all fantastic and I am so grateful for your lovely comments. Also, to the second Guest: Thanks so much for reading _Doubts_, and I'm so glad that you like the story. :)**

**This is a ridiculously long chapter because I couldn't find a good place to break it up. Since next week is Christmas and I won't have time to post, Chapter III will be posted on this Thursday, December 20. Finally, I hope that anyone who is Jewish had a good Hanukkah! **

**Possible Trigger Warning: Brief contemplation of suicide. **

**Free**

Natalya went through a mental list of her country's enemies, trying to determine just who was stalking her. Maybe the operative was King Cobra of HYDRA, or Scorpion, a dangerous freelance agent, or Hawkeye of SHIELD, the most popular topic of hushed rumors in the Red Room - no, it wasn't him, because she'd be dead already. That was what all the stories said, right? Or maybe it was him, and he was just overestimated.

Either way, she wasn't dead yet. And that was the problem.

She'd lost control of her emotions for a brief moment when the message had arrived from her superiors, and she'd started shaking like a leaf in a storm. She'd carried out orders like that before, and she wasn't going to do so again.

She looked at her gun, which she clasped tightly in her hand, and knew what she should do with it, but a part of her wanted to live. She didn't know why or for what, because her life was getting worse and worse with each passing day, but she just couldn't do it. She still had Russia to worry about, anyway, and wouldn't it be cowardly to take her life just to avoid doing her duty to her country? If she was going to die, she certainly didn't want to die a coward.

But she couldn't run away, either, and she couldn't just play into her stalker's hands on purpose. The Red Room would know, and they'd find her before her tracker ever had a chance to kill her, and then they'd make her wish she'd never been born.

There was only one option left to her now, and that was to hope with every fiber in her being that her stalker was better than she was.

**-Scene-**

"The Director isn't too pleased. You're taking your time with this," Coulson said.

Clint shrugged. "I _need_ time, Coulson. She's good," he said into the phone. God, Fury could be so impatient sometimes, but Clint wasn't rushing this. Patience was a sniper's best friend, and he wasn't going to do something stupid that might mess up the mission just because the director of SHIELD was getting nervous.

He heard Coulson sigh, and guessed that the handler was going to need some Advil as soon as the call was over. "As good as you, Barton?"

"No, of course not," Clint said immediately. "She just has a different game, and I'm still learning how to play it."

"Three days. Fury says you have three days to finish this up. There's another urgent mission for you when you get back."

_Oh, great. Just great_. Apparently he _was _going to have to rush this. "Right, got it. I'm out."

"Make that arrow count, Clint." He heard a _click_ as Coulson hung up, then sat down heavily on the bed of his cheap hotel room and put his face in his hands, feeling exhausted.

She'd eluded him for weeks. Clearly, she knew he was tailing her, and every second he delayed made it more likely that she'd turn on him. Like he'd just told Coulson, though, it was like a game, each of them trying to outwit the other, but neither of them showed any signs of buckling under pressure or gaining the upper hand any time soon. Maybe it was more like a dance, each of them taking the right steps, in perfect concert, a flawless back-and-forth and give-and-take.

He'd been on innumerable similar missions throughout his career at SHIELD, missions with the orders "Eliminate target." But this dance was different because it was engaging and a challenge, and he almost_, almost_, didn't want it to end, but not quite.

She was still a crazy murderer, after all.

**-Scene-**

Clint gulped down the fifth cup of coffee he'd had in the past eighteen hours. It was four in the morning on the second day Fury had given him. Yesterday evening, some desk agents back at base had intercepted an encoded message to Black Widow from her superiors, and he'd been helping them try to crack the code while video chatting with them. They were finally close - the computer program they were using was helping a lot, and they only needed a few more letters.

He jumped, startled, as an agent yelled "Yes!" and sprang up from his chair, holding his pencil and the piece of paper he'd been working on so furiously. The other agents on that side of the camera all began talking at once, and Clint had to shout at them before they told him what was going on. He grinned with relief as Ethan Alvarez, the agent who'd figured it out, explained his thought process.

"That third symbol in the first line - it's the letter 'p.' And remember that this is in Russian, so the structure of the sentence is different . . ." Ethan went on to read the translated message. "Offspring Lepushin, Order 010. Two. 1300 hours. Take immediate action."

Clint felt his blood turn to ice as understanding dawned on him. "Nice job, Ethan, you're a genius," he managed to say. "You all did great. I've got to go."

"Good luck," they chorused, and then Clint shut his laptop quickly. He pushed away the scraps of paper he'd been working on while trying to help puzzle out the code and grabbed Black Widow's file. He wanted to be wrong so badly. "Lepushin, Lepushin," he muttered to himself as he flipped through the pages. He'd seen the name before. He stopped when he found it.

Nikolas Lepushin was an important Russian government official who was championing a radical new policy. It was hugely controversial and it didn't take a big stretch of the imagination to guess that the Red Room wouldn't like the new legislation.

Order 010, Clint knew, was the assassination command. And Lepushin had two children. A lot of elementary schools in Vladivostok ended at one o'clock every day. The pieces all fit into a horrible, horrible pattern. Black Widow wouldn't care that children were innocent, wouldn't care that she was going to slaughter two defenseless people. She would follow her orders.

She probably hadn't added him into the equation, though, so he still had a chance. If he could get to her in time, Lepushin's kids would be safe. The only problem was that he had no idea where the hell she was, but it didn't matter. He'd find her, and he wouldn't mess up like last time, in the dance studio.

He was going to ensure that nothing harmed those children. He was going to kill Black Widow.

**-Scene-**

The clock read 11:45, and Clint was running, pushing past people on the crowded sidewalks and ignoring them when they cursed at him. He'd finally located the right elementary school, which had taken hours because the info was classified. He couldn't depend on the fact that Black Widow had had any trouble, though, so he was expecting her to be there, waiting to spring her trap like the spider she was. He was glad when the dark, threatening clouds opened up and the downpour drove most people indoors, clearing up the streets.

The traffic in this part of the city had been so bad that he'd had to leave his car. He'd have still been twenty blocks back if he hadn't. But he didn't like being on the ground; it was like being blind. And now, he needed every advantage he could get.

So, when he got close to the school, he changed tactics slightly and took to the rooftops, which were so close together in this area that he could make the jumps without much trouble. He paused when he climbed to the top of the school building and caught his breath.

He hadn't been still for half a second before he spotted her, an easy mark because of her red hair. She was a few stories below, in a deserted alley behind the school, sheltering under the overhanging ledge of an abandoned building. The big clock tower a few stories away started to chime, indicating that it was noon.

He had an hour, but he wasn't going to take any risks. So, he half-walked, half-slid to the edge of the roof, as quietly as he could. He was lucky she wasn't watching the sky.

He blinked rainwater out of his eyes and looked at her closely as he readied his bow and fit an arrow to it. She was standing stock-still, wearing that composed expression he'd come to know over the past weeks. Her right hand was buried in the pocket of her jacket, obviously clutching a gun.

He thought about how sick she had to be to murder children. Of course, it hadn't been her idea in the first place, she was just following her orders the way she always followed them - to the letter, never questioning them (kind of like him, but of course not like him at all). He'd noticed that about her. He was pretty sure he'd read somewhere in her file that she might have been trained from a young age. Maybe, – and with the way she acted, it wasn't hard to believe – maybe she was brainwashed. Maybe she hadn't chosen a life full of death. Still, it didn't make a difference, he had his job and she was an assassin, anyway, who killed as easily as she breathed (again, like him, but totally different . . .). He suddenly remembered the way she'd danced and how exhausted she'd looked, and caught himself too late.

He'd done the one thing he was never supposed to do, ever. He'd empathized with his target; he probably understood her better than just about anyone else at this point.

She wasn't like him. She was _exactly_ him, a carbon copy, and he would be right where she was if he'd been the brainwashed one. He was as mindless as his target, following orders and never messing up even if he didn't like what he was doing.

But he was going to change that. Tonight, he wasn't going to kill Black Widow.

**-Scene-**

Natalya waited. She'd done a lot of unspeakable things, things she didn't like to admit, even to herself, and she'd seen a lot death. She'd thought she'd known exactly what hell was a long, long time ago, but now she truly knew. It was this waiting. The rain was sheeting down so thickly that she couldn't see five feet in front of her, but she didn't care. The roof of the building provided enough cover, and it wasn't like she'd have to move any time soon. There was no one in the building to see her, as evidenced by the boarded-up windows.

She'd been holding on to her gun for so long that she couldn't feel her hand anymore. The bells in the nearby tower were tolling noon. She only had an hour, and then she was going to die, one way or another, because she'd decided to screw bravery and pathos; she'd go with cowardice if she had to because there was no way she was going to complete this mission.

For now, though, she was an easy target - even an incompetent would be able to make a shot at her. She was hoping, _hoping_, that her stalker would find her in time, because she would if she had to, but she still didn't really want to kill herself.

Or perhaps this was all part of the beginning of her punishment. She shut her eyes tightly for a moment and said to herself, "Just _get here_, damn you. Just get here."

And that was when an arrow thudded into one of the wooden planks that protected the window behind her, a nanometer from her skull.

Unable to control all her conditioning despite her earlier resolutions, she ducked fluidly and pulled out her gun. Her mind raced, and without even seeing him she knew he was Hawkeye, even more feared and deadly than she was.

Out of the pouring rain, a voice called in Russian, "Drop the gun, Widow."

It was still hard to let go of her weapon, though she knew her end was inevitable now. She forced her frozen fingers to open, and the gun clattered to the ground.

"I knew we could get along," came his voice.

He stepped into view, a second arrow already nocked on his bow and aimed at her. Just looking at the weapon made her feel something she shouldn't. Her stomach roiled. She was going to die, she'd accepted that. And maybe it wasn't good to draw it out, but suddenly she realized she could put her death off for another minute, just to say farewell to the world. He had missed her with his first shot, and that meant he wanted her to know that he was going to kill her, wanted her to fear. She could easily keep him talking for another thirty seconds. "I thought I lost you in St. Petersburg," she said, thinking back to one of her particularly good moves on the long chase.

"Train explosion, good one," he said, his face expressionless. "But there wasn't anybody on the train. You didn't really think I'd fall for that, did you?"

She could have made it more real to guarantee her safety, she could have blown up a train full of passengers, but she hadn't wanted to kill all those people just to make an escape. Now he was humiliating her for it. Once, that might have angered her, but she deserved humiliation and she knew it, because there were other times and other places where she'd slaughtered plenty of innocents. Some of the memories which surfaced briefly in her tired mind were old and dim, and the pain and guilt associated with them had been buried deep for a long time, but others were recent and she shuddered internally at them. All of them had a common element: blood everywhere, fresh blood that was red like her hair.

Hawkeye took a step closer, and she could feel his gaze upon her, picking her apart as if he knew everything she had ever done, every face of every person she'd ever killed. "You're not afraid to die, are you?" Oddly, his voice was not empty of emotion any longer. Something that she only recognized as _kindness_, and maybe a little sadness,had colored it.

She didn't understand why he cared or how he _could _care. He was probably just making fun of her. Either way, it wasn't like she had anything to lose. She might as well come clean while she still could. "It's better than what I have now."

He nodded, and she could make out traces of an emotion that she knew to be compassion in his eyes. If he was acting, he was damn good. "You don't like your job," he said calmly.

She couldn't help breaking her control to give voice to a harsh laugh. That was an understatement, if ever one had been uttered. "At least I can only die once, Hawkeye," she said. "This – this 'job,' though? There's death all the time, every day, and it never stops." It was kind of embarrassing to make her killer privy to the doubts she'd never told to anyone else. Apparently, she wasn't going to die with the cold, untouchable dignity she'd always imagined, and the Red Room wasn't going to be able to make a legend out of her. Although, this also felt – dare she admit it? – like a relief. Her guilt had weighed on her mind for so long and, strangely enough, it felt just a small bit lifted now. She was the worst kind of monster, and she'd known that forever, but now Hawkeye was going to kill her so she would at least atone a little.

She'd said everything she had to say, and now she was ready. The tangled threads of her own web were closing around her, dragging her down, and that was all right with her. She held his gaze and kept her chin up as she told him, "Make it quick."

Was that _pity _in his eyes? Impossible. Assassins like him, like her, didn't have pity. "What if it didn't have to be like this?" he asked.

"Of course it has to be like this," she snapped, wondering just what the hell he was thinking. Was he taunting her? "If you don't kill me, I will have to kill those children."

"No, you wouldn't," he said. His calmness was starting to annoy her.

"What do you mean? I have to do it or my country will be in danger."

He shook his head, though he never took his eyes off her. "Why? Because two children are alive? The Red Room is forcing you to do things you don't want to do. You're a prisoner."

No, her position was one of honor, wasn't that what they had told her? Maybe she was imagining it, but maybe, deep down, his words were the truth of her life, and maybe she had known it for a long time. But that still didn't change anything. She'd have to carry out the mission or they'd torture and kill her. It didn't seem like Hawkeye was going to hurt her before he killed her, so she'd go with the less painful option.

"Come with me," he said, and she didn't comprehend what he meant until he lowered his bow and held out his hand to her.

And suddenly all the pieces clicked into place and she understood. She was blood, she was cruelty, and she was death, but he was offering her mercy and life. It made no sense and she loathed it because the realization that she owed him her own life was engraving itself on her bones.

The whole world was shifting, because he had shown her kindness when he had no reason to, when she only deserved death for everything she had done. He was giving her mercy, and she knew in that moment that mercy wasn't for the weak as she had always been taught. In his world, mercy was for the noble, for those with honor, and he was giving her a chance to live in his world. This was the third option that she had never thought existed.

"I mean, the job's the same, and the pay sucks, but at least we don't kill kids," he continued, and she could see the total honesty in his face.

She stepped forward and took his hand, and left her world behind her.

**Comments, questions, or concerns? Criticism is always welcome. **


	3. Bewildering

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**The Avengers. **_**Marvel does. **

**Happy holidays! I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas/Kwanzaa/winter vacation/whatever you celebrate and get to spend time with your family and friends. **

**This chapter is mostly Natasha's POV, but the next one will have more Clint. There's not a lot of action this time, but it's necessary, so hopefully you'll bear with me until next chapter, which will be posted Thursday, December 28. The chapter after that will be posted on Monday, December 31, and after that we'll be back on the Monday schedule.**

**Once again, I want to give a huge thank-you to followers, favorite-rs, and the reviewers: Liliththestormgoddess, Often Late Kate, Kat713, Jedi-Kay Kenobi, and Vanidot. Your support makes me very happy! **

**Bewildering**

She and Hawkeye were extracted from Vladivostok within half an hour. Neither said a word to the other as they boarded a small jet. The pilots were surprised, to say the least, when she followed Hawkeye on and sat directly across from him, but they made no comment and took off smoothly.

She gave up her knife without protest, and she allowed him to handcuff her to the side of the plane. It was slightly demeaning, but it wasn't physically uncomfortable, and honestly, she had expected worse treatment. She stayed quiet as Hawkeye made a call to a man she supposed was his superior.

"Hey, Coulson?" he said, and the informal address confused her. "There's been a slight change in plans."

She didn't hear the reply, though she could guess that this Coulson was not happy at all. She didn't like to think about what kind of disciplinary action would have been taken against her if she had ever blatantly disregarded orders as Hawkeye had done. He was going to be punished on her account, and that made the debt sink a little deeper. She didn't enjoy this feeling of indebtedness at all, so she was going to find a way to repay him as soon as possible - if they didn't execute her when they returned to SHIELD's base.

"Well, see, I had a chat with the Black Widow, and she decided she wants to work for us! Isn't that great?" Hawkeye continued into his phone.

Apparently the man's favored tactic for dealing with weighty issues was to use bravado. She filed that notion away, in case it turned out to be useful at some point. Still, she couldn't imagine how he could be so _cheerful_.

Hawkeye hung up after a few more minutes, then looked back at her. "I'm Clint, by the way. Clint Barton."

In her life, she had known two people who had willingly given their names to her like this, people who trusted her and whom she had trusted in return. Those two people were both dead, and she had learned long ago not to trust anyone else, because then emotions got in the way and ruined everything.

_Clint Barton. _The name was so _American_ - it sounded like it belonged to a cowboy who wore one of those funny hats and rode off into the sunset. Was he out of his mind, trusting some assassin that he'd been ready to kill two hours ago? No, he couldn't be that stupid, not with reputation like his. He must have some ulterior motive that she didn't yet know. Or maybe, a very small and long-dormant part of her thought, maybe this was how people acted when they were free.

She didn't reply right away, didn't know how to - what name could she possibly use? Natalya Romanova had been the pawn of people who murdered children, had been a terrible, unthinking slave. She wasn't sure that she was that person anymore. So who was she, then? She was Black Widow, yes, because she was still the monster even though she was no longer the machine, but she was not Natalya Romanova.

He was still waiting for a response, so she asked the one question that was more important than all the others. "Why didn't you kill me?"

He grinned. "I kind of liked your fighting style. It's not half bad."

Targets complimented her on her appearance. Once in a while her superiors - no, her former superiors, now - would praise her for her success and her perfection. This was different. He wasn't a target trying to flatter her, and he wasn't waxing eloquent about how she had triumphed in the name of the country. Except, technically, he had just bested her in a fight, so why was he acting this way? He was supposed to be the dreaded Hawkeye, not Clint the Friendly Schoolboy. She looked at him closely for the first time and noticed that he was not much older than she was. That he had made such a legend for himself, then, was impressive. She wondered how young he had been when he'd started.

She felt she had to say something, felt she had to thank him somehow, for everything, but she knew that there was nothing she could do to satisfy the debt she owed except by saving his life the way he had saved hers. "You'll be in trouble," she said, feeling guilt wash over her.

He shrugged and nodded , but his wide smile didn't go away. "Yup. But hopefully they'll be so distracted by you that they won't remember how I was involved. So, be awesome, okay?"

It didn't make sense. _Nothing _made sense. She couldn't let him talk anymore, because everything he said confused her further, so she did not reply. They didn't speak again for the remainder of the long flight.

* * *

They landed many hours later at a SHIELD base in upstate New York. She was still handcuffed when she followed Hawkeye out of the jet and onto the tarmac, where a dozen guards were waiting for her. The middle-aged man who stood in front of the guards seemed rather unassuming, but she could sense the deference the others showed him.

Hawkeye strolled up to the man, looking as if he didn't have a care in the world. "I'm glad to be back, Coulson."

She had never said anything like that to _her _superiors, but she didn't pursue that line of thought any further and instead focused on the situation at hand.

Coulson sighed and crossed his arms. "Barton, what am I going to do with you? Don't answer that." The crisply dressed man turned to her, and his expression became a fraction more impassive and professional, which she hadn't thought possible two seconds ago. "So, Ms. Widow, you want to join up?"

_Ms. Widow_, she mused. It was certainly a first, and she kind of liked the sound of it. "Yes," she said, making sure that her curtness and composure matched his. "I would like to join SHIELD."

"What makes you think we want you?" he continued. "As far as we're concerned, you're an enemy."

This was close to what she'd been expecting, so she had an answer prepared. "I have information you need. I simply come along with it."

"I doubt there's anything simple about _you_," he said.

She took a deep breath, staying calm under his scrutiny. Everything was simple about her - she killed when ordered to. There wasn't really much else, but she would let him believe what he liked. "Be that as it may, Agent Coulson, the deal itself is simple enough."

He shared a glance with Hawkeye, who nodded encouragingly, and sighed. "What kind of info are we talking about, exactly?"

"Everything I know," she replied. "Troop movements, past missions, goals."

"Well, Ms. Widow," he said after a short pause, "for the moment, we've decided that you aren't an unmanageable threat. So, provided that you haven't lied to Agent Barton about your purpose here, and that you comply with the interrogators, you have a small chance at amnesty. After a period of five to twelve months, you _may _be selected to begin a few low-priority operations."

She was going to be free, though she could barely believe it. As she walked over to the guards who would escort her into the facility, Hawkeye smiled at her and gave her a thumbs up. _Be awesome_, he mouthed, and she almost felt like smiling back.

* * *

Coulson cornered him once the guards had led Black Widow away. "Was it because she's pretty?" the handler asked, sounding exasperated and more than a little angry.

Clint shook his head violently. "What!? No!"

"Well, then what?"

"She was brainwashed. They would have killed her if she didn't follow their orders," Clint said. He didn't know if he could explain it right. Yes, he'd admired her fighting style, like he'd told her. But that wasn't really the reason, of course. Sure, Coulson was annoyed, and he knew Fury would just about explode, but none of that mattered because he had done the right thing. "She deserves a chance, Phil, the same way I did."

He rolled his eyes. "You realize this might be a trick?"

"No, it's not. I know when someone's lying and she wasn't, I swear. I watched her for weeks. She didn't like what she was doing, trust me."

The handler rubbed his forehead and sighed. "She was your target! You can't just decide to drop a mission like that," he said in a tone that for him, qualified as ranting. "You're going to be hearing from the Director for this. He's not too thrilled. _And_ you're getting two months of suspension without pay, and that's being lenient. You broke protocol big time, Clint."

"It was worth it," he said, and he meant it.

* * *

She told them everything, and it felt right to be making good on her promise. The seasoned interrogation agents seemed surprised that she wasn't holding back with the logistical information. Sometimes, though, they asked questions that were far too personal – things she didn't even like to think about. She answered those very briefly, skipping anything they didn't absolutely need to know.

About six months after arriving, after constant debriefing and extensive psychoanalysis, she was unceremoniously informed that she had been approved for amnesty and would be issued papers the next day at promptly 9:20 A.M.

That was good. The base was tolerable, she supposed, even if it was a little strange (she still wasn't over the fact that agents smiled and greeted each other in the halls, or that many of them appeared to be _friendly _with each other), but she was getting cabin fever and receiving papers would mean that she was one step closer to actual missions. Any mission would be welcome, even if it was something that wasn't very important. She'd been cooped up for so long that she was afraid she was getting rusty.

With that thought in mind, she headed to one of the three expansive gyms in the base. She had trained whenever she could over the past months, but no one ever wanted to spar with her. She was really all right with that, as she didn't enjoy any unnecessary contact with others, and she certainly hadn't done anything to ingratiate herself to anyone, but practicing by herself could get boring. When she entered the gym, she walked to what had become her personal corner, noticing how the agents went out of their ways to avoid her. _Good, _she thought. At least she still had a reputation.

She was in the middle of stretching when Hawkeye strolled in, carrying his bow and quiver. He traded greetings with a few other agents, then crossed the gym to the archery range where he started shooting. She couldn't help but watch as he fired away at the speed of light, repeatedly hitting the center of his target. She hadn't seen him since the day he'd brought her in, and she'd heard that he'd been temporarily suspended. In her opinion, he deserved a greater punishment than that for disobeying orders, but then again, she wasn't the one in charge of SHIELD.

She finished her training regimen some time later, then stalked over to the water cooler and poured herself a drink. Her head flew up and she tensed as she heard footsteps behind her. It was Hawkeye, and he reached past her to take a paper cup.

"Hey," he said, and she gave him a slight nod. "Heard you're getting your clearance. Congratulations," he continued.

She wasn't sure exactly what his point was. Was he mocking her? She searched for an appropriate reply. "Well, congratulations on completing your suspension."

He smirked. "Thanks a ton," he said. "They're going to make you pick a name, y'know. Your codename is pretty cool and all, but it's kind of a mouthful."

All right, he was definitely mocking her. She wondered why he thought he could do that, and then realized that it had to be because he knew that she owed him, and she couldn't very well repay her debt by sending him to the infirmary. After she controlled her initial surge of anger, she had to accept that he had a point. She still hadn't introduced herself to anyone as Natalya Romanova, and she wasn't planning to, but she needed a new name.

She decided that his impudent words did not merit a reply. People did not speak to her like that, not people who wanted to remain in one piece, even if they were agents named Hawkeye whom she owed.

"So," he went on, as if he didn't know how much he was annoying her, "how are you liking it here?"

The question threw her off. No one here had inquired about her personal tastes, and she hadn't even thought about them herself. "It is acceptable," she said, after some thought.

"I'm so glad we've managed to meet your standards," he said, with a bite to his words that had not been there before. That was fine; she knew how to deal with animosity. "Well, see you around," he said, and walked away without a backward glance.


	4. Revival

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**The Avengers**_**. Marvel does. **

**This chapter is a little short, but hopefully it will be enough to tide you over until Monday, when the mission starts. This part was necessary to introduce some of Clint's friends as well as to set up the rest of the story. **

**Thanks to sv4me, Vanidot, Often Late Kate, Guest, Liliththestormgoddess, and Jedi-Kay-Kenobi for reviewing, as well as to anyone who followed or favorited. **

**Revival **

_A "Thank you, it's not so bad here" might have been nice, _Clint thought as he left the gym and headed toward the cafeteria. Everyone hated SHIELD food, but it wasn't like he had many other options at the moment.

"Hey, Clint!" a voice called, and he turned around. Another agent had followed him out of the gym. He waited until the other man caught up with him. "Long time no see."

Clint nodded. "It's good to be back. How are you, Ethan?"

Ethan Alvarez was the certified genius who'd broken the Red Room's code all those months ago. He and Clint had been friends for a long time, ever since Ethan had accidentally gotten wrapped up in a mess of a situation down in Rio a few years back. Clint had been working that job and had saved Ethan's life with some timely assistance, and then Ethan had helped him finish the whole mission in less than two days by hacking the target's computer system. Ethan grinned. "I'm fine. So what happened with Black Widow?"

"Yeah," a third voice said, joining them. "Thought you never miss."

"I didn't," Clint replied, glancing at the newcomer. Bobbi Morse flipped her blonde hair and smirked, as if aware that she had scraped his pride a little with her comment. She was a reconnaissance agent, which meant that she scouted out situations so that field agents would know just what they were up against. Each time Clint had worked with her, she'd proved thorough and reliable, which was more than he could say for some others.

"Then why is she still alive?" Ethan asked. "You're a sniper; you remove targets, not recruit them."

Clint shrugged. "I figured that she'd be such a handful that Fury wouldn't have time to bother anyone else."

"Aww, Clint, you mean you sacrificed six months of salary for your fellow agents?" Bobbi asked in a playful tone. "That's so sweet."

"I_ am _sweet," Clint said. Ethan chuckled, and Bobbi's smirk grew wider. They reached the noisy cafeteria, grabbed some food, and found an empty table. "But actually, my suspension was only two months. I've been in the field for the past four."

"We were all a little worried for you back there in the gym," Ethan said. "The last time someone talked to her, she knocked him unconscious."

"I heard he was more than just talking to her, but that's beside the point," Bobbi added, inspecting a mass of mystery meat on her plate. "He was out of commission for, like, a week."

"Ouch," Clint said. He hadn't realized she was _that_ much of a psycho.

"And in hand-to-hand practice, she dislocated Jonathan Berkeley's shoulder," Ethan added. "_And _the last time she had interrogation training, the student she was questioning ran from the room screaming hysterically."

"What, you're keeping tabs on her?" Clint asked, but Ethan just shrugged.

Bobbi pushed her tray away, clearly giving up hope of finding anything edible on it. "So what happened on your latest mission?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. I was in Kenya for a while."

"What about you, Ethan?" she asked. "You picked up a new op, didn't you?"

Ethan gave them a blank expression. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

Clint grinned. "Come on, can't you do better? That's the oldest line in the book."

"It's so old that it's new," Ethan said, and they all laughed, then went on to trade stories. Clint decided that he was glad to be back.

* * *

"Come in, Ms. Widow, and have a seat," said a well-dressed man who reminded her of Coulson. She entered the small office as he asked. "I'm Agent Lee," he told her, "and I'll be completing your paperwork today."

He went through the documents which certified that she had been debriefed, completed mandatory SHIELD training courses, and been given a clean bill of mental and physical health. He showed her a summarized report of her past, a more detailed list of her working experience, then filled out personal details such as her natural eye and hair color and her birthday. "And I'll need a name."

And here was the moment of decision. She'd had so many names already, but she'd never truly left the familiar_ Natalya Romanova_ behind as she knew she had to do now. The night before, she'd tried to choose a different name, but nothing she'd thought of had seemed absolutely right. She thought about Hawkeye's comment - that 'Black Widow' was too much of a "mouthful," and then she recalled his real name, his incredibly American name, and knew exactly what she should do.

"Natasha," she said, because she was living in an English-speaking country now and she might as well have a name that fit. "Natasha Romanoff." She felt a thrill run through her, because she was doing the unthinkable; she was breaking the Red Room's rules by corrupting her language. She smiled. Now she had truly defied them and made her defection complete. She molded herself to the name, to _her _name, and wondered why she hadn't thought of it sooner.

"That was a good choice," Agent Lee said, writing it in, and she agreed and thanked him, though she doubted he knew just how good it was to her. "And what about your codename? Do you want a different one?"

She thought about the offer. The title had been pushed upon her by the Red Room, but the Black Widow legend was _hers _– she was the one who had fought for it and spilled blood over it. "No," she said, shaking her head. The Red Room could find a different name to give its slaves.

After another hour of paperwork, which included signing her new name multiple times, Agent Lee faxed a few forms, stood up, and pressed a button on the wall. "This is Lee, we're ready in Office 714, sir."

Half an hour later, Director Fury strode into the room, followed closely by Agent Coulson. She stood and gave the former man a slight nod of respect.

"Well, I suppose you've fulfilled just about every requirement," Fury said without preamble, taking a package from Coulson and handing it to her. "Go on, open it."

She did so, removing a United States document certifying that she had been granted amnesty. She glanced at it, satisfied, and picked up the other item in the box. Confusion washed over her, followed by an intense wave of pride and what she thought might be happiness. She stared at the badge in her hand, unable to look away.

"Welcome to SHIELD, Agent Romanoff," Fury said, and shook her hand, then walked out of the room as purposefully as he had entered it.

Coulson stepped up. "You'll be on probation for the next year, assuming nothing regrettable happens, which means that one wrong move, one wrong _thought_, and you're gone," he said. "So watch it. Other than that, I'll be your handler, so what I say, goes."

"Yes, sir," she replied in her carefully composed voice, then turned to Agent Lee. "Thank you."

He smiled at her, beaming. "My pleasure."

She and Coulson exited the office together. "I've got a job for you," Coulson said.

_Already? _That was much, much better than expected. She'd thought she would have to wait at least another six months before becoming an agent, and then even more time after that until they sent her out on a mission. She wasn't used to so many good things happening in such a short amount of time.

He led her down a hallway. "It's a low-profile mission, but you'll be assigned a partner to keep you in line and provide backup if it's needed. Since it was his decision to bring you here in the first place, we've determined that Agent Barton will be that partner." He must have seen the flash of confusion on her face before she hid it, so he held up a hand and continued. "That way, if you've really been lying this whole time and decide to run back to the Red Room, he'll be the only one to suffer for his choice."

That was when she panicked. She was the Black Widow; she didn't have a partner. She did not want a partner. And she definitely didn't want that partner to be Hawkeye, who wasn't scared of her like the other agents because she owed him. Evenly, she said, "Agent Barton is a solo operative. I don't want to negatively affect his performance -"

Coulson held up his hands to quiet her. "He'll have to handle it." He paused and lowered his voice. "And just between you and me, I'd rather you didn't kill him."

_Speak of the devil, _she thought, because Hawkeye had rounded a corner and was heading straight for them, an unhappy look on his face.

"Hey, Coulson, I just saw Fury in the hallway and . . ." He trailed off as his eyes landed on her.

When they reached him, he had controlled his expression and seemed about to say something, but the handler spoke before he could. "Did he explain everything to you?"

"Yeah, and then he said, 'She's your problem now,'" Hawkeye replied, sounding almost surprised.

"Good," Coulson said dryly.

In silence, they made their way to a briefing room, where a file was already laid on the table, and went over the details of their mission. They were to appropriate the central hard drive of an organization headquartered in Spain that dealt illicitly in drug trafficking. The only definite link they had to the organization was its leader, Alfonso Aguerra. He would be spending the next week at a five star hotel in Madrid. They would leave for Spain on a Quinjet that night. Coulson made sure they were as prepared as possible, then left to attend to other things after he warned them not to mess up.

That left the two of them alone in the briefing room. Clint looked up from a piece of paper from the file and mused, "Natasha. Slightly less of a mouthful."

"I'm glad I've managed to meet your standards, Agent Barton," she said coolly, echoing his words to her from earlier.

"I guess I set myself up for that one." He was not smiling, but she thought she detected a hint of warmth in his voice, as if he had forgotten his irritation at her yesterday.


	5. East and West

**Disclaimer I: I don't own **_**The Avengers. **_**Marvel does. **

**Disclaimer II: Clint's ideas about foreign automobiles are entirely his own, and I do not share them. It is, however, my headcannon that he owns a '64 Mustang or some other classic muscle car.**

**Thanks to all the favorite-rs, followers, and reviewers: Liliththestormgoddess, Jedi-Kay-Kenobi, Often Late Kate, and sv4me. I love your feedback! **

**Well, here's part one of their first mission together. I'll see you next Monday with part two. I hope you enjoy, and Happy New Year! **

**East and West**

The pilots exchanged nervous glances before they sealed the cockpit and guided the Quinjet down the short runway. Clint couldn't blame them for their anxiousness. It didn't matter that Romanoff was officially a SHIELD agent - her reputation still had a lot of weight. He guessed that she was satisfied with that.

After they'd been in the air for a few minutes, he pulled out the mission file and went through the details in his head. His job - his _and_ _Romanoff's _job, he corrected himself - was to get the central hard drive of the mystery organization, and SHIELD hadn't given them any names apart from the leader's, Alfonso Aguerra. Clint sighed. "They gave us the same info they would if this were an assassination," he said. "How do they expect us to get inside the base if we don't even know where it is?"

Romanoff looked at him, unfazed, but then again, she always looked that way. "I'll have to interrogate the target."

"Okay, so he's just going to give you access codes?" Clint asked. He didn't doubt that she could figure out the base's location, but this was taking it too far. She was only human, after all - she wasn't a mind reader.

Her expression didn't change. "One thing at a time."

That was it. Nope, this wasn't going to work. Clint liked plans. They didn't have to be complex, they just had to be concrete. Over the years, he'd found that having a course of action already planned out really reduced the stress level, because there was always something to fall back on. Maybe it was part of being a sniper, or maybe it was just him, but he liked things that were methodical. He shouldn't be so surprised, though, he told himself. He'd already known that she was a spur-of-the-moment thinker who took advantage of opportunities. Still, her process left way too much up to chance. "I don't think so. We should have a strategy."

"I have a strategy. I'm going to infiltrate the base once I find out where it is. Then I'll copy all their information, exit the base, and deliver everything to SHIELD." She spoke very slowly and deliberately.

"And what am I supposed to do? Sit by the pool and order martinis?"

She shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"Look," he said. "It might be hard for you to believe, but I'm the senior agent here. I think I should at least have some input." They'd _both _been sent on the mission, right? He knew his main purpose was to keep her in line, sure, but he wasn't useless. And she was good, but there were too many things that could go wrong if her solo assault on the base didn't turn out well. There was no point in risking the mission because she wanted to do everything by herself.

"Senior _SHIELD_ agent," she said caustically. "I'm at least as experienced as you. And this mission requires my skills, not yours."

So what if he was more of the find-the-target-and-shoot type? He was about to reply when she cut him off. "Let's just get this over with, all right?"

"Fine."

* * *

Six and a half hours later, at around 5:45 local time, they had landed in rural Spain and were driving to Barcelona in the sleek car SHIELD had provided for them. Clint was at least grateful that Romanoff hadn't argued when he'd announced that he was driving. Driving always calmed him down, although the car wasn't necessarily one he would have picked if he'd had a choice. At least it was inconspicuous and a smooth ride, even if its engine was probably a piece of junk.

They reached the city and the hotel a couple of hours later and checked in as Mr. and Mrs. Reinhardt, a wealthy German couple on vacation. Clint had been inside such an extravagant building maybe twice in his life, and he had to make sure that he didn't gawk at the ten-foot-tall marble fountain or the massive chandelier in the lobby. Romanoff, on the other hand, was in her element. She spoke flawless rapid-fire Spanish to the concierge, laughed musically at an offhand comment from Clint that wasn't even that funny, and generally turned heads everywhere she went.

They ran into their first issue when they got to their purple-and-silver-themed hotel room and found only one bed.

"I'll take the couch," Clint said immediately. It was really more of a loveseat and it didn't look very comfortable, but it had a better vantage point of the room than the bed, and it was right next to a window. Anyway, he probably wasn't going to end up sleeping much on this trip. That was unfortunate, because he hadn't slept on the Quinjet ride at all (no way was he going to look incompetent in front of her - if she didn't sleep, he wasn't going to, either). A little coffee would help, though.

He dropped his suitcase and backpack next to the couch. "I'm going to scope the place, and I'm going to grab some coffee. What kind do you want?"

She considered his offer for a moment, then shrugged. "Black."

Plain, professional, minimalist - just like her personality. "'Kay. I'll be back in an hour."

He made his way to the lobby, keeping a lookout for the mark. The only picture of Aguerra in the file had been rather grainy, but that didn't matter much to the sniper. Recognizing people quickly came with the job.

Next he headed for a breakfast lounge, which he figured might be a likely place to spot the mark, but Aguerra wasn't there. After another half-hour of wandering around the luxurious hotel, Clint changed tactics and stepped outside.

Straight ahead of him was a pathway that led to the pools, to the right was a fancy outdoor restaurant and to the left was a collection of upscale shops. He pretended to consider the restaurant's menu as he inspected faces - and there, buying a pearl necklace at the jewelry stand was Alfonso Aguerra with a well-dressed woman on his arm. Then, the woman and the target sat down at one of the restaurant tables. Clint allowed himself a smile.

Ten minutes later, he strolled back to his room, carrying two cups of coffee, pleased with himself. Romanoff was at the desk, typing furiously on her laptop, but in the blink of an eye she had a gun aimed at his head. The gun disappeared as quickly as it had appeared when she saw it was only him.

"Guess what?" he said, placing her cup on the desk and refusing to let the unexpected threat rattle him, "I found Aguerra. He's enjoying his pancakes outside. The bad news is that seduction is no longer on the table. So, what have you been doing?" He sounded ridiculously smug, even to himself.

She only raised an eyebrow at him. "I hacked into the hotel's database," she said calmly. "The target is on the sixth floor, Room 6110. I'm watching him eat on the security feed from outside. And seduction is always on the table."

Now she was trying to upstage him! This was on the verge of going too far. "Oh, yeah?" he asked. "He's got someone with him. He was buying her jewelry."

"Agent Barton, my methods always work."

"Sure. Now, what are we going to do?"

She didn't answer for a long while, but she eventually shut her laptop and got up from the desk. "You and I are going downstairs for breakfast."

* * *

This wasn't fair, Clint reflected as he and Romanoff sat in the restaurant a few feet away from Aguerra and his guest. He'd been forced to admit two things to himself. One, seduction was on the table. Two, she looked really good in red sundresses.

Over their breakfast, the two agents chatted in German about their 'plans' to tour the city as they pretended not to notice the obvious glances that Romanoff was attracting from Aguerra. When the target's companion stepped out of hearing distance to make a phone call, Romanoff took the opportunity to send a knowing smile toward the target. Clint played along and pretended not to see the leer on the target's face, and made a droll comment about the nice view. She turned back towards him, as if she were only paying half-attention, and replied in a lazy voice. Then, her head shifted the slightest bit, and she locked eyes with him for a brief moment. He understood her message:_ Leave_. He made a show of checking his watch and remarked that he had a conference to attend, then swiftly left the open-air restaurant.

He watched, unnoticed, as Romanoff paid for the meal, then brushed past the target's table, hips swaying. Aguerra was left smoothing out a crumpled napkin, on which Clint would bet was a phone number.

* * *

They returned to the room and waited for the target to call. Clint decided that he'd been in less awkward situations. He was sitting in an armchair, papers with mission details spread over his lap, but he was paying more attention to the view from the window. Natasha was tapping away on her laptop. After a while, it got so that Clint couldn't stand the silence any more.

"What are you doing?"

She didn't even turn to face him. "Working on the report of my first interaction with the target."

Clint half-grinned. "What?"

"The handbook instructions clearly state that detailed reports are to be written after each encounter with the target, or targets, if time allows."

Now he was laughing, possibly a dangerous thing to do in her presence, but he couldn't help himself. _She can't be serious, can she? _But she was. A lifetime of following orders to the letter would do that to a person.

"What's so funny?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

"Nothing. You."

She frowned. "Me?"

"Yeah." He was treading on dangerous territory - he knew she couldn't take a joke, and one look at her expression proved it. But sometime she was going to have to learn to be partway normal, and maybe he could help. "Nobody does that, don't worry about it."

"Shut up, Barton," she said, and went right back to typing up her report.

* * *

It was early afternoon when Romanoff's phone rang. She let it ring twice before picking it up and answering with a casual "Guten Tag." As she listened to the response, she gave Clint a slight nod, then quickly switched to Spanish as she chatted with Aguerra.

_It worked, _he thought, as he tried to block out her conversation, which was peppered with innuendo and shameless flattery. He wasn't really all that surprised. A small part of him wished that it hadn't worked, just so he could've proved her wrong, but he knew that would have made her even sulkier than usual, and anyway, a bigger part of him just wanted to get this mission finished so he could go home, back to his friends.

Romanoff hung up five minutes later, and the pleased, somewhat excited expression she had worn to match her tone during the conversation disappeared, replaced by the stone-cold look Clint was already familiar with. "I'm meeting the target in his suite in half an hour," she said. "I should be back by eleven o'clock."

Clint nodded. "Fine. You got your com?"

"Yes." She paused briefly. "But I think you'll understand if I keep it off during the indecent portion of the interrogation."

Clint felt heat rise in his cheeks; now that it came down to actually having to use them, he couldn't help but feel slightly uncomfortable with her methods. She shouldn't have to do this just to get information. He briefly wondered how much trauma she'd gone through during her training. Just thinking about it made him want to help her, because sure as hell, nobody else was going to. "Yeah. Of course."

She picked up her suitcase and walked into the bathroom. A short while later, she emerged in a black dress, her makeup perfect and every hair in place, then pulled a purse from her suitcase and slipped her gun in. She checked the clock on the nightstand and headed for the door.

"Romanoff?" Clint asked, almost surprising himself.

She spun around. "I'll be late. What?"

He cleared his throat. "You - you don't have to do it this way."

Her expression wavered for a few moments before she quickly composed it again. "This is my strategy, Barton, and it works. I can handle it."

He sighed. "Okay, but if you change your mind we can figure something else -"

"Barton," she snapped. "It's fine."

Clint held up his hands. "All right, all right. Just wanted you to know."

She turned away, her face betraying nothing, and walked towards the door.

"Um - wait?"

This time she didn't even turn around. "_What_?"

"Good luck."

She marched out and slammed the door behind her, but he felt incredibly guilty. Even black-ops assassins should have some sort of moral code, and this was definitely crossing a line. He shouldn't have let her go. Surely two world-class spies could have found a different solution.

He jumped when, a five minutes later, his communicator crackled to life and he heard Natasha's voice greet a man who must be Aguerra. Just as suddenly, the connection ended. He assumed that was her way of letting him know she had made it and the situation was under control.

A few more minutes passed, and Clint started to drum his fingers on the armrest. What if something went wrong? What if Aguerra knew who she was? What if he disarmed her and took the com? _Calm down, _he ordered himself. _She knows what she's doing. _He wasn't used to depending on someone else's actions to this extent, and he didn't like it at all. If she wasn't back two minutes after eleven, he was going after her.

He paged through the local newspaper. He slept. He took a shower. At nine, he started polishing his bow. By ten-thirty, he still hadn't heard from Romanoff, and he was ready to break down the door of Aguerra's suite. It had definitely been a trick, she'd been captured, and now he was going to have to clean up a really big mess and somehow save the mission.

He breathed a sigh of relief when she stepped into the room at exactly eleven o'clock. As she sat down, though, he noticed that the old, tired look was back on her face. He wanted to say something to comfort her, but he knew she wouldn't take it well, so he asked her what she'd found out.

"His organization is called the New Dawn. They sell to lots of illegal ops. I think HYDRA is one of them. And that woman - she's his secretary. She brings him encoded messages from the primary base at least twice a day," she said crisply.

"So she'll lead us to the base," Clint said. Finally, the beginning of a plan.

Romanoff nodded. "Right. She emailed him while I was over there - they're meeting for lunch tomorrow at a restaurant about fifteen minutes away."

He smiled. "Good work."

She stood up and looked at him for a pause that was far too long. "Thank you," she said in a voice barely louder than a whisper. She cleared her throat.

"No problem," he said, making a point of ignoring her lack of people skills.

She stood up again and headed quickly for the bathroom. Clint heard the water from the shower running and tried not to think about what she had just done.


	6. Partnerships Aren't Built in a Day

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**The Avengers. **_**Marvel does. **

**I've got a nice, long chapter for you this week! Next update will be Monday. **

**I want to thank everyone who subscribed and everyone who reviewed: Liliththestormgoddess, Jedi-Kay-Kenobi, and paintallthestuff (who also has a Clint/Natasha story that you should check out).**

**EDIT, January 14, 2013: If you are checking the story to see if it has been updated like it should be, I'm very sorry to keep you waiting. I've been very sick and I haven't had time to finish the next chapter. I promise I will post it as soon as possible. Thanks for understanding! **

**Partnerships Aren't Built in a Day**

"Drive," Romanoff hissed from the passenger seat.

Clint couldn't help frowning. He wasn't stupid; he knew how to follow a target. All the same, he started the car and hit the gas pedal once Aguerra's assistant strolled out of the restaurant and turned the street corner. As they had expected, the woman got into her own car and drove off.

"Go faster," she said ten minutes later, once they had turned onto the northeastern highway out of Barcelona.

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and kept weaving through the thick traffic. "Are you kidding? I'm already going fifteen kilometers above the speed limit!"

He saw her roll her eyes. "What's wrong with that? The mission is more important than -"

Clint's patience disappeared as anger suddenly flared in him. "Than what? Innocent lives? Cars can kill people, Romanoff. I should know." Damn it, he hadn't meant to say the last part - there was no reason he had to get personal with her. She didn't say anything, though, just went quiet and sat back. He knew that she was drawing her too-accurate conclusions because she was one of the best interrogators SHIELD had ever seen and that's what interrogators did.

He still had nightmares about the accident, even though he'd only been five when it happened. If he'd learned anything from that night, it was that most laws were there for a reason. That was why he tried not to speed and why he would never, ever get drunk, whether he was planning on driving or not, because the risk wasn't worth it. He tore his mind away from the subject. He probably had a long drive ahead and he wasn't going to make it worse by waltzing down Memory Lane.

She didn't try to do anymore backseat driving, for which he was grateful. Neither of them spoke for a long time as they passed the exits for cities like Cerdanyola del Vallès, Sabadell, and Terrassa. As he looked at the unfamiliar names, Clint hoped that Romanoff knew where they were, because he sure didn't. For the first time, he considered the possibility that the secretary they were following was leading them into a trap. He thought about mentioning it, but threw the idea away because it might make him look like a rookie worrywart.

They'd been on the road for about an hour and were in a much less populated area, with nothing but trees on both sides of the road. About fifteen minutes ago, they'd passed a small town called Matadepera, and Romanoff said that there wouldn't be many other settlements for a while. They were a good distance behind the secretary's car, and they lost sight of her whenever the road twisted.

It wasn't long after that when the secretary's car slowed and turned down a small dirt side road.

Clint reached the turnoff five minutes later and drove right past it in case there was security of any sort, and it was a good thing that he did. About a hundred yards down the smaller road was a gate with a guardhouse to the side, and a barbed-wire fence that wound through the forest. Romanoff gave him a slight nod of approval and he felt a little better. There was no point in being angry with her now, not when they were approaching what was probably going to be the most difficult part of the mission.

They continued for about a mile, then stashed the car behind the thick trees. Romanoff threw on a suit jacket and matching pants that covered her leather catsuit, and slipped into a pair of heels, but Clint didn't ask why - he figured she had her reasons. They grabbed their weapons and headed back on foot. As they walked, Romanoff turned to him. "I have a plan," she said.

"Yeah? What is it?" This was a good sign, Clint thought.

She pushed aside a low-hanging branch, and he couldn't help but notice that she walked much more softly on the crunchy fallen leaves and twigs than he did. He'd have to work on his stealth.

"I'll go in pretending to be a client, that way I won't have to hide."

If Clint had heard that sentence come out of anyone else's mouth, he would have laughed at the joke. Even coming from her, it sounded pretty ridiculous. "You seriously think you can bluff your way in?"

She nodded. "Yes. I picked up some details from Aguerra."

And she hadn't bothered to tell him about the extra info? By now he wasn't even surprised. "What am I going to do?"

"Find a perch near the entrance and wait for me to come out."

He noticed she didn't admit outright that she might be pursued on her way out of the base. He didn't really like her plan, but she was so stubborn that arguing with her probably wouldn't make a difference. And if she was confident she could do it, then she probably could. "Fine. Let's go."

After a few minutes, they neared the gate and the guardhouse. "Okay," Clint said, wanting to review the plan again, "if something goes wrong, let me know."

She rolled her eyes. "All right! I'll keep my com on, just to prove that everything will go smoothly."

They split up. Romanoff strolled up to the gate while Clint scaled the high fence and hoped that there were no security cameras around.

He could hear her speak with the guards through the com. Clint froze when they asked her for a password, but she breezily answered with a short number sequence that she must have gotten while snooping around Aguerra's hotel room.

Clint took a course parallel with the road, and assumed from what he was hearing that she was being escorted to the base. The journey took about five minutes at a brisk pace. Up ahead, Clint could see a clearing with a building. It was not a work of art, nothing more than a big, industrial-looking cube. The bright white paint on the walls didn't exactly help it blend in with the landscape. He went as close as he dared, then climbed a leafy tree at the edge of the forest and found a sturdy-looking branch that looked comfortable enough. His "perch," as Romanoff had called it, was about a hundred and fifty yards from the main entrance, just in range of his current bow. If everything went as Romanoff planned, though, he wouldn't have to use it.

He caught sight of her entering the building, led by two guards, and hoped that she would work quickly.

* * *

Natasha followed the pair of guards into the base. She'd kept a chilly, professional manner towards them, as they would expect from a client. Everything was going perfectly - the code she'd heard Aguerra use yesterday while making a call had worked like a charm. She'd show Barton how competent she was!

They walked down a long, bare corridor that reminded her of a place she didn't like thinking about, and made two right turns and a left before they stopped outside a door.

"Four of the company's directors are in here," the taller guard told her. "They are in a meeting, but they will want to speak with you immediately."

She nodded, and the second guard opened the door and walked in, probably to announce her entrance. Over the com, Barton said, "_Nice_." She supposed he felt the need to maintain contact in order to delude himself into thinking that he had a part in this mission, and she didn't mind much, only wished she owed her debt to someone less annoying. The guard returned within a few moments and ushered her in, shutting the door behind her.

There were half a dozen guards stationed on the other side of the large room, as well as the people she assumed were the four directors and one other, who sat around a table. Apart from the guards, no one else that she could see was armed. There was a button and a speaker for a P.A. system on the wall to her left, and a few steps to her right, in the corner of the room, was a heavy, wooden desk. The man closest to her stood up and approached her, shaking her hand.

"I am one of New Dawn's directors," he said quietly, as the others at the table continued talking in low tones. "I'm told you're interested in making a purchase."

"Yes," she said. "Mr. Aguerra sent me here."

"I see. If you'll just wait for a few minutes until we conclude this other meeting, I'd be happy to show you our stock."

She nodded. "Of course." He stepped away from her.

That was when a man at the far end of the table stood up and leveled his gun at her. The guards responded quickly, aiming their own firearms at him.

The director she'd just spoken with looked from her, to the man who still hadn't lowered his gun, and back to her. "You two know each other, I presume?"

She didn't get a chance to answer, because the other man nodded furiously. "I knew her in the Red Room," he spat. "She was their darling until she disappeared six months ago." He shifted his gaze towards her. "Traitor! We scoured the earth for you, and where did we find you but _SHIELD_?"

Shit. They knew. And SHIELD was everyone's enemy. Six more guns were trained at her once the guards reached the same conclusion.

"Were you such a coward that you ran away from mere _children_?" the man continued, and by now she recognized his face. He wasn't someone that she had known or ever spoken to, just someone that she'd seen around, but she'd been a living legend at the Red Room, their most valuable asset. What was he doing here? "You feared them, Black Widow?"

The room went silent as the Red Room operative finished ranting, and before anyone else could move, she made a dive for the desk to the right. A bullet grazed her upper arm, and another flew too close to her head, but she reached the desk and ducked under it, pulling out her own two guns as she did so. The others were shouting at her to come out, and they started to rush towards her. When their footsteps got too close, she peeked around the side of the desk for a split second and fired, once with each gun.

Two guards dropped, and a third stumbled and fell over their bodies. The unarmed New Dawn directors were backed into the far corner of the room, while the Red Room agent was advancing more carefully than the guards. Everyone was yelling frantically, and one of the guards was screaming because the bullet she'd put in him hadn't killed him yet.

It was then that she heard Barton shouting in her ear. "Widow! The hell's going on? Gimme a sit rep!"

"Can't you hear, Hawkeye, or is it only your eyesight that's good?" she snapped, and he went quiet for a moment longer than he should have.

"Yes," he said, anger barely controlled in his voice (she didn't know why in hell he'd choose this moment to be upset; he'd wanted something to go wrong just to prove that she couldn't finish the mission by herself). She fired again and missed, hitting the Red Room agent's shoulder and not his head as she'd intended, and listened to Barton continue. "I can hear _fine_. Are you outnumbered?"

No, she was the only SHIELD agent in the whole base - she wasn't outnumbered at all. "Of course I'm outnumbered!" He'd be happy, now he'd be free to carry out the rest of the mission as he pleased. He didn't reply, and she stopped caring the next second because she didn't have time for him.

One of the directors was using the P.A., begging for help - _Damn it _- and the guards were too close to her but they couldn't do anything yet. Everything was still for a minute as the guards caught their breath, but they didn't realize that she was catching her breath too.

The door flew open and eight more guards ran in. She shot three before they got their bearings and realized where she was, and by then she'd taken cover again.

"Take her alive!" shouted the Red Room agent, and there was no way they were taking her alive because that meant they'd take her back to Russia and she _couldn't _go back there. Four guards came at her, and it was a stupid move on her part because even as she killed one of them she didn't realize that a fifth man had leaned over the desk and grabbed her.

He lifted her up, and she kicked and struggled but he had more raw strength than she did and she wasn't going to reveal just how good she was yet. He carried her into the middle of the room, where the others surrounded her and made her drop her guns. They weren't going to kill her yet, so she was free to lash out at them however she liked. She slammed her pointed heel on her captor's left foot. He yelled in shock and pain and his grip on her loosened just a little, and by then she was free of him and had knocked the gun out of another guard's hand.

The room was chaos now. The guards grabbed at her, but she ducked and parried their blows. One was lucky enough to land a hit on her chin, and she felt blood slide down her lip but she wouldn't feel the pain until later, if she made it out alive.

The guards were cursing at her now, calling her every name they could think of, but she didn't care because she could move so much faster than they could and because they were the ones dying, not her. Her vision was sharp and she anticipated their blows, and she was just so much _better_ than they were.

The door burst open again as she snapped the Red Room agent's neck, and she looked up for a brief moment, ready to deal with the new threat, but then a guard dropped with an arrow through his neck.

* * *

Clint had seen Romanoff fight before, but he didn't think he'd ever get over how graceful she made death look. She was in the middle of a cluster of guards, whirling and kicking and generally making them afraid to come near her. She had blood trickling down her lip and a cut on her left arm, and he might have been a little scared of her if they weren't on the same side.

When she saw him, she launched into a fresh flurry of action, and he didn't stop shooting until it was clear enough that they were going to win. At some point during the fight, Romanoff shot the room's sole security camera.

"How'd you find me?" she called, now on the other side of the room where she had her legs wrapped around a guard's neck in the thigh choke he'd seen her use before.

"I followed the sound of the gunshots," he snapped, sending an arrow into the last guard. "You know, because my hearing is so good." He wasn't planning on mentioning his hearing aids.

The four unarmed New Dawn people cowered in the far corner. Clint approached them, nocked another arrow, and pointed it at the New Dawn directors. "Where's the hard drive?" he asked, switching to Spanish.

"Two floors up, third door on the left, " one said, rushing through his words. "Now please don't kill me!"

Clint didn't lower his bow, but he said, "Nah, I fight fair."

Romanoff walked over with four pairs of handcuffs she'd taken from some of the guards, and she shot him a glance that clearly said she'd rather kill them, but he shook his head and they cuffed the directors in silence.

When that was done, Clint turned to her and sent her his best glare. "Okay, so let's get one thing straight," he said. "I don't like having a partner, you don't like having a partner. You think I'm annoying. I get that. But we still have to work together _because _we're goddamned partners!"

She met his gaze coolly, but she wasn't glaring back, and he took that as a good sign because maybe she'd realized how badly she'd miscalculated and that he was right. "Fine," she said eventually, without any trace of resentment in her voice, and then she grinned mischievously. "If you can keep up."


End file.
